


Shaved

by glymr



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Facial Shaving, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shaving, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glymr/pseuds/glymr
Summary: "Can I help?" said Connor. Hank blinked."What," he sputtered, "Cyberlife's special advanced model is going to help meshave?"





	Shaved

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before I'd even finished playing the game. After the "I adapt" line (and WINK) and the "I'm whatever you want me to be" line, this story started eating my brain. It's sort of a "missing scene" thing, except that Hank never ends of clean shaven in the actual game.

It was seven o'clock in the goddamn morning when the goddamn android showed up.

Hank groaned as the sunlight hit his eyes, piercing and painful. "What the _fuck_ ," he said. It wasn't even a question anymore, just a resigned exclamation of frustration.

"We have a lot to do today," said Connor, moving smoothly around the room. Hank ground his teeth and forced his eyes open, watching as Connor scanned over his stuff – the dirty laundry in the corner, the half-finished take out box on the bedside table, and the completely finished bottles of liquor on the floor.

"Get out of here," snapped Hank. He wasn't ashamed of the state of himself or his house, there was no point. He especially wasn't ashamed about an _android_ seeing it. It wasn't like Connor cared.

"We have an appointment at nine thirty," Connor insisted.

Sighing, Hank levered himself up, wincing. His mouth felt and tasted like something had died in it. "Fine," he said, giving in to the inevitable.

After brushing his teeth and taking a hot shower, he felt slightly more human. He stared at his face in the bathroom mirror, the familiar feeling of disgust welling up. Wrapping the towel more securely around his waist, he hesitated, then reached for the safety razor.

"Ow! Fuck!" he said a moment later.

"Lieutenant Anderson?" The door opened slightly and Connor's head poked into the room. "Are you all right?"

Hank glared at him and snatched a piece of toilet paper to press against the stinging line of red. "I'm fine! I just cut myself, all right?"

Connor's eyes rested on him for a long moment, then, rather than stepping back and closing the door as Hank had hoped it would, it stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind itself. Great.

"You're attempting to shave?" it said.

"It was a dumb idea," said Hank, tossing the razor aside. His hands were shaking. His hands always seemed to be shaking.

Well, hell, he'd just go in with a strip cut out of his beard. He'd gone in looking worse and they hadn't fired him yet.

"Can I help?" said Connor. Hank blinked.

"What," he sputtered, "Cyberlife's special advanced model is going to help me _shave_?"

"Why not?" said Connor. It reached over and set the lid down on the toilet. "I told you, Lieutenant. I adapt. Have a seat."

It was just another innovation, he supposed. Like the safety razor and the electric shaver. Eventually no one would do anything for themselves. Androids would spoonfeed them and wipe their asses for them.

He didn't have an answer, though, so he cinched the towel tighter around his waist and settled onto the toilet lid. The cold porcelain brushed against his back.

Connor looked over the safety razor, made a sound of dissatisfaction, then opened the medicine cabinet. It lined up its tools as Hank watched: a small pair of scissors, an old bottle of shaving cream, and a new safety razor, still with its plastic cover. Then Connor stepped in front of him. Hank tilted his head up.

The situation should have made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He watched the android as it picked up the scissors.

Connor smiled down at him, just a small, reassuring quirk of its lips.

He _was_ uncomfortable, Hank told himself firmly as Connor started to snip away the excess hair on his face. It wasn't comforting, having someone else's hands on his skin. Having someone else...having an android take care of him like he was a child or an invalid. He closed his eyes.

After a time the hands and the scissors disappeared. There was the sound of an aerosol can. Hank opened his eyes just in time to see Connor licking a little of the white foam off a finger.

"What the fuck," Hank said, exasperated.

"This shaving cream is beyond its expiration date," explained Connor. "I am making sure that it is still usable."

Hank rolled his eyes. "I'm sure it's fine," he bit out.

Unfazed by his irritation, Connor started smoothing the cream over Hank's face, down his cheeks and over his jaw. Then it picked up the safety razor, snapped off the plastic cover, and carefully started drawing it down Hank's face.

The android worked slowly and methodically, gently pulling the skin taut each time before smoothly sliding the razor across it, carefully rinsing the razor at the sink between each stroke. Hank looked up at it, watching its face. A person would have his face screwed up in concentration, lips pursed, perhaps, or eyes narrowed. Connor's expression was serene.

When it had finished the right half of Hank's face, it stroked one hand down Hank's cheek, over his jaw and down his neck again, just as it had when applying the shaving cream. Before, the cool, thick foam had felt nice. Now, with all his nerves sensitized by the close shave, the touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. He sucked in a startled breath. Connor was already turning away to pick up the razor again. It peered closely at Hank's face – Hank imagined those camera eyes zooming in on every pore – and swept the razor over a couple of stubborn spots, going against the grain. When it had finished, it ran its fingertips lightly over the places it had just shaved, sending flares of sensation over Hank's skin.

A shiver rolled over him. Connor paused. "Are you cold?" he said.

"No," growled Hank, his voice lower than it should have been. He cleared his throat. "I can do the rest."

"It's no trouble," said Connor. It picked up the shaving cream and started on the left side of Hank's face.

Hank forced his eyes closed again. No one had ever shaved him before. It was something a man did for himself, not depended on someone else for. He'd certainly never dreamed that the experience could be...pleasant.

He held himself still as the blade moved across his skin too slowly. He was anticipating it, he half-realized, the moment when Connor would touch him again.

Yet, when it came, it was somehow unexpected. The hand against his cheek was just a little cooler than his own flushed face, but it sent chills racing down his spine. He couldn't help shuddering.

Connor didn't say anything this time, just came back with the razor again, then those fingertips. Sensation raced out from the points of contact. Hank was – he wanted –

There was a rusty squeak, the familiar sound of the medicine cabinet door swinging open. The click of Connor putting the tools away one by one. Hank kept his eyes closed. He wished Connor would touch his face again.

Then it was finished. He could feel the android looking down at him.

"I could help you with that, too, if you wanted," said Connor softly.

Blinking his eyes open, Hank said, "Wha-?" then glanced down, following Connor's line of sight, and froze.

He was hard, his erection making an obvious tent of the towel around his waist.

"I – what – no," he stammered. Heat flooded his face in a wave. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I-"

Connor sank to its knees between Hank's legs and put its hands on Hank's thighs. "You have nothing to be sorry for," it said. One tug was all it took and the towel was sliding away, the two sides flopping down, leaving Hank exposed and bare.

Jesus, how long had it been? He hardly even masturbated anymore, falling asleep each night in a haze of whiskey fumes and going about his day either half-drunk or wishing he was. "What are you doing?" he said, his voice more plaintive than sharp.

Connor looked up at him with those clear, untroubled eyes. "I thought I'd use my mouth," it said with a half-smile.

Hank's breath caught. That mischievous, smart-ass mouth wrapped around him-

"You're not a – a sex bot," he ground out. This was all wrong, he didn't – he wasn't supposed to want this.

The light at Connor's temple flickered for a split second. "I've downloaded all the relevant code," he said. Hank could feel the words as he leaned forward and said again in exactly the same way as he had once before, "I told you, Lieutenant. I'm whatever you want me to be."

Then its mouth was on him and Hank writhed, his body jerking hard. It was _good_ , so fucking good, hot and tight and slick. He shoved at Connor's shoulder. "Connor, _don't_."

Frowning, Connor pulled off. "What's the matter?" it said. If it had been a human, its voice would have been a little hoarse after taking him so deep into its throat, but Connor sounded exactly the same.

"I can't take advantage of you like this," panted Hank.

"Take advantage of me?" Connor sat back on its heels and looked up at him, its expression puzzled.

"You're only doing it because you're _programmed_ to," Hank gasped out.

"Yes. I am a machine. Therefore I am not capable of giving consent at all. Perhaps it would be best if you thought of me as merely a very advanced masturbatory device."

Hank couldn't stop his crack of laughter. "What, like a self-powered fleshlight?"

The light on Connor's temple flickered again, probably downloading the reference. "Exactly," it said without irony.

_Yeah, well, a fleshlight can't watch me back. Can't react to me. Can't – can't save my life-_

Biting back the words, Hank tried to find a flaw in Connor's logic.

"But do you _want_ to do it?"

Connor's head tilted to one side very slightly. "How is that relevant?"

" _Do you?_ "

The flickering again. It seemed to stay yellow for a long time, flickering to red once or twice. Just when Hank was starting to worry that he might have broken it, Connor said, "Yes."

Hank blinked. "You do?"

"Yes," said Connor again. It leaned forward. "I want to."

But could it even know what it wanted? If it was only following its programming, then...but if that were the case, then Connor's first statement was true. If it was just a computer executing its code, then 'consent' didn't apply. And if he wasn't, he had made his desire clear.

Hank's eyelids fluttered, then sank closed as Connor went down on him again.

It was too good, too perfect. Hank couldn't resist laying a hand on top of its head. Its hair felt as real as anyone's.

"You keep doing that, I'm not going to last long," he admitted.

Connor pulled off and looked up at him. "Did you want to last?"

"I...maybe a little," said Hank. Dimly he knew couldn't let this happen ever again. He might as well enjoy it now.

"We need to finish no later than nine o'clock," said Connor. "Shall I make it last until then?"

Chuckling, Hank said, "I'm not an android, I can't time my orgasm to the second."

"I can," said Connor with perfect confidence.

Hank narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit."

"I'll make you a bet, Lieutenant," said Connor.

"A bet?"

"You like gambling, right? I'll make you come at nine o'clock exactly. If you win, I will leave you alone for twenty-four hours."

Twenty-four hours without it dogging his every move, without it dragging him away from bars and pulling him out of bed or off the floor.

The idea made Hank feel oddly bereft for a moment. "And if you win?"

"You won't drink any alcohol for twenty-four hours," said Connor seriously.

"Ugh." That was an awful thought.

"Not up to the challenge, Lieutenant?" said Connor. Was the damned thing _smirking_ at him?

"Humans aren't like androids," he said. "You can't time something like that. I'll take your fucking bet."

For a third time Connor lowered its head.

This time it wasn't perfect. The pace was a little too slow, a little off. It felt good. It felt really good. But it wasn't quite...enough.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, everything shifted. It was impossible to tell if the pace increased or if his own body just got used to it. If he _adapted_ to it.

What time was it? Connor knew, but he didn't. That wasn't quite fair, was it? He opened his mouth to say so, but couldn't get out anything but a sharp gasp.

Nine o'clock must be close. Either he had to calm down or push faster. He couldn't let his hips jerk-

Oh, maybe he could. It wasn't like Connor had to breathe or worry about gagging, right? Hank let himself thrust upward. Connor didn't seem startled, just moved with him, not changing anything about its own rhythm or pace. Hank tried again, but he might as well not have bothered. He couldn't move Connor, couldn't surprise it.

"F-fuck," he choked out. His hips were moving of their own accord now, thrusting up again and again. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the feeling slid into perfection again. Speed, pressure, heat, everything was right, amazing, so – so fucking _good_.

He slid over the edge like going over a waterfall, vertigo and pleasure closing over his head and leaving him breathless. "Fuck," he whispered again. Connor's throat had moved around him, swallowing him down.

Collapsing back against the cold toilet tank, Hank opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

What the hell was he doing?

What the hell had he done?

"Lieutenant?" He dragged his eyes down to where Connor was looking up at him, wiping its mouth on the back of its hand. It was such a _human_ gesture. "It's nine o'clock and forty-seven seconds."

Hank squeezed his eyes shut again.

Well, fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [tumblr](http://glymr.tumblr.com/) off and on. Feel free to ping me there and say hello. :)


End file.
